Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

-- T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Chapter Two – The Thing About Space

Commander Tucker scanned the ship as the shuttlepod drew closer. The fissure that was causing the ship to lose its breathable air was tiny, compared to the vessel. Travis worked in silence, eyes wide in concentration. In order for Trip to start repairs, the pilot would have to deliver him as close as possible to the outer hull of the ship, so that Trip could cross the short distance in open space.

The ship was not that big; Enterprise dwarfed it completely even as the starship began to retreat to its safe distance. It was boxy and ungainly, just a space-truck outfitted for long hauls. That it had taken its share of beatings was obvious: burn marks and dents dotted the hull. The shuttlepod circled the entire ship slowly, the pilot and engineer searching for any other defects that might need to be fixed.

"You can attach the tow line there," Travis said, pointing to a slightly raised section of the hull about ten meters from the breach. "Here, let me get in a little closer."

"Don't bump it," Trip warned. Travis just spared him half a second's worth of glare as he throttled down and pulled around. Trip fastened his helmet, blinking against the automatic face-light,and tested his oxygen. "Okay, ready to go," his now-tinny voice said.

On the Bridge, listening in on the communication, Archer tensed, nerves jangly anyway from way too much caffeine and too little sleep. He hated the feeling of helplessness that came whenever an away team didn't include him. He had sent the two men most skilled for the job, but a part of him still wondered if he shouldn't have handled this himself. Both Travis and Trip could be considered essential to their mission to defeat the Xindi; as far as he was concerned, there was no finer pilot or engineer in the galaxy. He'd rescued Travis from that sinister repair station, and he'd made ethical decisions to save Trip's life that he knew were right but which still haunted his subconscious, as last night's dream attested. He was not prepared to lose either of them now.

Trip pulled himself into the airlock and waited for the seal to turn green behind him before opening the outer door. He imagined that he could feel the cold of space, approaching absolute zero, through the material of his EV suit. He didn't especially like spacewalking – he had seen too many science fiction movies in his lifetime. In every single one of them, it seemed, there was always that one poor schmuck who came loose from his mooring and ended up floating silently into eternity.

He heard his breathing get quick and ragged, and made a conscious effort not to hyperventilate.

"You okay, Commander?" Travis asked, watching the jumpy life support readings out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah," Trip muttered, "just that first step, it's a doozy." He pushed off with his foot, gripping the tow line, and made a beautiful arc toward the waiting ship. With a flick of his wrist, he engaged his magnetic boots, sticking to the hull of the Nausicaan ship.

"Nice job," Travis said with admiration. "You're clear to attach."

A few clicks later, the line was securely fixed, and Travis turned his full attention to keeping it taut between the ships. Any slack in the line would mean that they were drifting too close to one another, risking collision and explosion. Trip adjusted his boots and made his way to the area of the hull needing repair. He set the case down, stuck it, and went to work. The rent in the hull was about eighteen meters long, not very wide; nothing a little run of the mill soldering couldn't handle. Piece of cake, thought Trip.

He focused completely on his task, until even the discomfort of the bulky EV suit faded into the background. This was simple construction, a ship engineer's work at its most basic. After a while, with about a half a meter to go, he said, "Time check."

Travis answered immediately, "Three hours, forty-two minutes. You've got plenty of air."

"Okay, almost done – what is that?"

The thing about space is, there are no obstacles – no trees, no mountains, no corners to peer around. And there's no light, usually, except for what you bring with you. So when you look up and see an immense, self-illuminated object coming toward you really fast, it can be unnerving.

Trip saw the object approaching and commenced to lose his shit. "Travis! Who the hell is THAT?"

"Commander, can you come inside now?" From the high pitched tone of Travis' voice, the pilot was on the edge of panic himself, fighting against every instinct in him telling him to flee. Trip finished the last few centimeters of welding and began shoving his instruments back into the case. "Commander?" The only response Travis got back from the engineer was a steady, terrified stream of profanity.

"What do you see, Travis," Archer demanded, cursing the distance between Enterprise and the shuttle pod. "Report, Mr. Mayweather!"

"Sir," came Travis' nervous voice, "there is a big-ass ship headed our way."

Archer stood up and took a few paces toward the helm. He wanted to join in Trip's chorus of curse words, but forced himself to remain calm. He motioned to the helmsman and directed her to set a course to intercept. "Take it slow," he cautioned softly, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. In a louder voice, intended for the away team, he said, "We're on our way, we'll be there in . . ." he looked to T'Pol.

"Eleven minutes," she supplied.

"Eleven minutes," he repeated, "so just hold your position, and Trip, get back in the shuttle pod." As they approached, going as fast as they could, but still sub-light, they caught sight of the new vessel. T'Pol began searching through the database to try to identify the ship. Archer could see the orange pinpoint of Trip, holding on for dear life to the grapple line, which he had unfastened from the Nausicaan ship, and which Travis was now, very carefully, retracting into the body of the shuttle pod.

"Hang on, Trip," Archer muttered, not even aware that he had spoken aloud.

Trip was doing his best to comply. His breathing was deafening within the confines of his helmet, a panting, gasping sound which unsettled him even further, punctuated by an impressively imaginative vocabulary. He bumped helmet-first into the hull of the 'pod and reached out with one clumsy glove for the hand hold near the outer door. "Travis!" he yelped, "open the fucking door!" A moment later, the outer hatch slid open, and Trip dove inside.

From his angle on Enterprise, Archer couldn't see whether Trip had made it into the pod. All he could hear was the ragged breathing of the engineer, which gradually began to quiet. Then Travis finally had the presence of mind to comm over, "Got him, sir."

Archer fought down his premature relief. He still needed to get them back on board the ship. "Sit tight, gentlemen, while I see who our visitors are." Enterprise glided to within hailing distance of the newcomer, which sat, in relative terms, behind and above the Nausicaan ship and the shuttle pod.

Ten minutes later, there was still no response to any of their hails. Hoshi had tried every language she could think of, down to the simplest binary code. Worse, there was no match in T'Pol's database for the ship. Finally, the Science Officer said, "Sir, the Nausicaan crew still needs to be evacuated. I suggest that we do that now."

Archer eyed the unmoving ship. "Okay, T'Pol, have the Nausicaans transport over – give them the coordinates for the launch bay, and signal the shuttle pod to return." He hit the intercom. "Archer to Security. Reed, report with a team to the launch bay."

It was difficult to establish contact with the Nausicaans; for several precious minutes, they did not answer any of Hoshi's hails. Finally, a weak and groggy voice responded, and indicated that there were three to be rescued.

The Nausicaans used their own transporter to beam over to Enterprise, materializing in the great empty space the shuttle pod usually occupied. Any other day, Archer would have been fascinated by the process, not having used the ship's own transporter more than a couple of times himself. Today, however, he merely noted the silvery-blue shimmer as he waited impatiently for the rescued crew to arrive. When they did, they were wearing the Nausicaan version of EV suits, with air tanks attached. These were quickly stripped away and scanned for bio-hazards. There were two males and one female; all three of them were obviously seriously injured and immediately slumped to the ground, barely conscious.

Reed, ever suspicious when aliens were present on the ship, put his security team and the MACOs on alert and notified Phlox of the medical emergency. Not willing to delay the pod's arrival any further, the team prepared to carry the aliens to Sickbay themselves.

"Secure Sickbay," Archer directed his security chief as they retreated past the airlock door. "I'll be along to talk to them in a few minutes." Security hustled the three visitors down the corridor, while Archer and T'Pol waited for the shuttle pod to land. "What the hell happened here?" he wondered aloud, watching with relief as the shuttle bay doors began to open.

Trip couldn't get out of the pod fast enough. Travis barely had time to power down before the commander was up and out the door. He burst out of the bay the second it was equalized, his face white. "Who is that?" he demanded, as if Jon would know.

"They do not answer our hails," T'Pol replied.

"They just appeared out of nowhere, sir," Travis exclaimed, "heading right for us."

"Maybe these Nausicaans can shed some light," Archer said. "I'll be in Sickbay. Trip, T'Pol, start stabilizing that tamirite. If there's going to be trouble, I want that stuff as inert as possible." He turned on his heel and strode down the corridor.

Only one Nausicaan crewmember was still conscious. He reclined on the bio-bed as Phlox completed his diagnostic tests. The doctor stepped toward the door to converse with the captain out of the patient's earshot. "They are all suffering from phaser-like burns, and there is evidence that they have been breathing compromised atmosphere, most likely from a coolant leak or some other mechanical failure."

"Prognosis?"

"Two of them should recover quite nicely. As for the third, it's doubtful." The expression on Phlox's face confirmed that the doctor found a sixty-six percent success rate unsatisfactory.

Archer stepped up to the bed. "I'm Jonathan Archer, the captain of this vessel," he said slowly. "I'm sorry about your ship."

The alien took a deep breath. "I am Markur, first mate of the Dyonta. Where is my crew?"

Phlox answered, "I have put them in special chambers designed to help them breathe better. Their lungs are somewhat damaged."

"Can you tell me what happened to your ship?" Archer asked. "Where is your captain?"

"Dead. He was on the other ship."

"What other ship?"

Markur closed his eyes in pain, whether emotional or physical, Archer couldn't tell. "The Sassh. We carry tamirite separately, in case it destabilizes and we have to jettison the cargo. We live on the escort ship, along with our families. I had the watch on the Dyonta."

"What happened," Archer asked again, now dreading the answer.

"It was a small ship, and fast. There was no time even to arm weapons. Before we knew it, it had docked with the Sassh and they were boarding. The comm was open. I could hear the screams of my crew as they were slaughtered. Not even the children were spared."

"Children?" Archer echoed dully. Before Markur could continue, the door to Sickbay opened and T'Pol entered. Archer gratefully introduced her; it seemed he would need her dispassionate moral support to get through this interview.

"There were twenty-two aboard the Sassh; seven were children." The alien paused. "The intruders told us to prepare to be boarded, and when we responded that we were carrying dangerous cargo, they fired on us and knocked out our power. The tamirite containment fields began to fail. Then three of them transported over. They killed two of us immediately, and we retreated under weapons fire to the command pod. Only three of us made it. I knew the moment I saw them that everyone on board the Sassh was dead, or would be soon."

"Who were they?"

"Askarinoc," the alien said, and the Universal Translator just skipped over the term. Archer looked at T'Pol, who had stiffened slightly by his side. He knew she could feel his gaze, but she merely lifted an eyebrow and asked Markur politely to continue. The Nausicaan turned his face away from them and said, "I ordered my second to seal off the command pod and flood the rest of the ship with coolant. When the other ship lowered its shields to transport the . . . attackers back, I fired and destroyed both their vessel and the Sassh." He closed his eyes. "By then, only the three of us, Lellen, Ketra and I, were left. Dyonta sustained more damage from the explosion."

"It was the only thing you could do to save yourselves," Archer said softly.

Alien eyes turned to him, hot and angry in his spiked, reptilian face. "My wife was on that ship, Captain," the Nausicaan said. "My children, my brothers, their children. What am I going to tell Ketra, my brother's wife, if she ever comes out of your 'special chamber?'"

Phlox stepped forward to spare both his patient and his captain from exploring that question. "We will concern ourselves with that later. You need to get some rest now, hmmm?" The captain took that as his cue to leave for the moment, and gestured to T'Pol to join him outside, leaving a Security team guarding the door.

"You've heard of these attackers before?" he asked as they walked toward the Bridge.

T'Pol took a deep breath. "I have heard stories, mostly. Nobody knows where they are from, what planet or system, because they, to my knowledge, have never identified themselves, and they rarely leave survivors. They are ruthless pirates by all accounts, preying upon lightly armed civilian vessels; they take by force whatever they wish, ships and cargo. They don't accept surrender, and they generally do not leave witnesses. Our Nausicaan guest is one of the few who have lived to describe an actual encounter with them.

"Earth's history speaks of brutal marauders like the Huns, and the Mongols. These pirates are exponentially worse. Every species that has encountered them has a name for them. Vulcans call them G'Kvam'ir Sratah. The closest term in your language, Captain, would be," she considered for a moment, "'the Devastators,' or, more precisely, 'The Ones Who Lay Waste to Everything.'"

The captain stopped walking as he reached a comm station. For a moment, he laid his palms against the bulkhead and hung his head. T'Pol heard him say in the quietest of voices, "Damn. Damn." Then he straightened and hit the control with his fist. "Archer to Bridge."

"Reed, here."

He took a deep breath. "Polarize the hull plating. Go to Tactical Alert."

The Bridge practically crackled with tension when Archer and T'Pol returned. Travis had not re-taken the helm yet; he was still inspecting and securing the shuttle pod. In his place sat Ensign Ibrahim, whose hands hovered nervously above the controls, as if expecting to have to jump to warp at a second's notice.

Reed said, "Still no contact, sir. They have some sort of shielding, so our scans aren't giving us too much information."

Archer jerked his head toward the Situation Console at the back of the Bridge. "Send over what you've got."

When they had gathered around the schematic, Reed pointed out the basic engine configuration and weapons system of the silent ship. "I've compared that ship to the Ossarians that attacked us when we first got into the Expanse. It doesn't match. Also, it's not modified like the Tarkalean vessel was, so I doubt it's the same aliens we encountered before." A chill crawled up Archer's spine as he remembered those poor people, both human and Tarkalean, who had somehow been transformed into half-mechanical creatures.

"These are not unknown aliens, Lieutenant," T'Pol said. "You'll find information on them in the Vulcan database." She briefly summarized the facts.

Reed studied the console for a moment, considering. "Captain, how do we know this isn't a trap? These Nausicaans, who are no strangers to piracy themselves, I might add, could very well have set us up for the . . . Askarinoc by sending a distress call."

"You saw those people, Lieutenant," Archer responded doubtfully. "They were barely alive. You really think they would expose themselves to that level of danger on the off chance that a ship might come along?"

"Nausicaans are not exactly known for their honesty. We know that from first hand experience, sir."

T'Pol interjected quietly, "We have personally encountered, as I recall, only a few Nausicaans. To judge an entire species by the actions of a handful would be as illogical as dismissing humans as irrational based on the characteristics of a minority."

It may have been over-sensitivity on his part, Archer thought, but that one felt like a dig. He pressed his lips together to keep from jumping on the comment. You are a danger to the universe. He pushed the accusing voice out of his head.

"If they were prisoners, perhaps they would have been willing to attract a ship in exchange for their lives," Reed argued some more.

T'Pol shook her head, a motion which struck Archer as incongruously human under the circumstances, and replied, "The Nausicaans would know that any ship coming to their rescue would undoubtedly be boarded and captured, and everyone on board would be killed. It is unlikely the Askarinoc would spare anyone, not even purported allies."

"But what the hell are they doing in the Expanse?" Archer mused.

"If your main goal were piracy and conquest," T'Pol offered, "would you remain in a region of space where species have begun to trade with and protect each other, or—"

"Or take your chances in the Wild, Wild West," Archer finished grimly. "T'Pol, download everything you have in the Vulcan database that can help us. Then, we'll go have another chat with our friend, Captain Markur. We need to know everything we can about these 'Devastators' if we're going to have any chance at all against them."

In the three hours it took Archer to view and digest the eyewitness accounts and log data from doomed ships attacked by the Devastators, the ship hanging off Enterprise's bow neither moved nor signaled. The crew remained on Tactical Alert, waiting for the other figurative shoe to drop. In his Ready Room, Archer bleakly reviewed recording after recording, some with audio, some silent video, of crews and passengers mercilessly killed by dark-clothed, almost shadowy figures. The video streams flashing across his screen were highly disturbing; as Markur had said, the attackers spared no one, no matter how much a victim begged in whatever language. A few intruders were killed by the mostly unskilled defenders – lucky shots, generally; their bodies immediately shimmered green and disappeared. No wonder the Askarinoc remained such a mystery; they left no physical evidence of themselves behind. The impassive eye of each ship's monitoring camera captured it all, though, recorded the last moments of young and old alike, until finally the log was jettisoned into space by some desperate hand.

It was worse than the log account Soval had shown Archer of crazed Vulcans killing themselves and each other in the Expanse. There, the horror had been manifested in the sight of normally logical, emotionless beings, reduced or somehow driven to madness and uncontrolled violence by an aberration of the universe. But here, there was a sense of deliberation, of mission, a mindset that mercy was not an option. Archer watched and listened as a female alien pleaded in a language he didn't recognize but could readily understand, holding an infant in her arms. The attacker paused, flung back his or her phase-rifle on its shoulder strap, and then drew a large dagger-like blade, running the woman and baby through with one stroke.

He shut it off with a shaking hand. For the first time since the Xindi mission had started, Jonathan Archer felt fear. The universe had upped the ante. It was not just a race against time to stop the Xindi weapon anymore; now, there was an obstacle in his path he was not certain he could overcome. For if the Devastators took Enterprise, Earth was lost. There was no back up plan. There was no cavalry. There was only Enterprise, with one hundred souls on board. I don't have to tell you that failure's not an option, Jon, Admiral Forrest had said gravely as he'd signed the orders sending Enterprise into the unknown. Some days, it seemed failure was the only, the inevitable, option.

I'm afraid, Dad.

Good. Fear keeps you alive, son. You don't ever want to serve with anyone who doesn't feel fear, because that person doesn't have any sense.

Vulcans don't experience fear, Dad.

Sure they do; they just call it caution. But you have something else: courage. Courage is doing what needs to be done despite your fear. Have courage, Jon.

Archer commed T'Pol. "What's the status of the tamirite?"

"So long as the material stays at the current temperature or below, its volatility is point three one percent."

He rolled his eyes. This woman and her decimal points. "Meaning?"

"It is, statistically speaking, completely inert."

"Good. Launch a warning beacon and prepare to resume our previous heading, Warp Three."